


Habits and Oaths

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 13:19:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13614189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: Written for @thran-duils (Tumblr) Valentine’s Challenge – quote prompt #10: “You knew I would come.” Pining angst and, because my insides are made of gooey marshmallow cream, fluff.





	Habits and Oaths

As is his routine, Castiel withdraws two mugs from the small shelf above the percolating coffee pot. Without thinking, he chooses the off-white porcelain mug with a hairline crack in the handle for himself. Upon each use, the tenuously attached handle threatens to permanently fragment. Burdened with a scorching pour of coffee on this morning, as on mornings past, it holds steadfast. It’s not that he favors this cleft drinking vessel which is so much an allegory for his own fractured existence. Rather, it’s the practical choice of a pragmatic angel who doesn’t dare risk the mug shattering in anyone else’s grip. Even broken – an irredeemable object that would be easily cast aside and forgotten – it remains useful in accepting hands.

The second mug is for you. It’s glazed in olive camouflage with the pronouncement of _World’s Okayest Hunter_ plastered across the front in bold script. Dean thought, and still thinks, it was an exceptionally hilarious birthday gift. Muscles moving in mechanized ritual, Cas dilutes your coffee to a pale golden hue with creamer and mixes in a generous spoonful of sugar. Setting the dripping metal utensil down beside the mug with a soft clatter, he watches the foam of cream swirl and cling to the rim.

It’s then that he remembers. Then that a sharp pain stabs at the center of his chest and radiates inward. It wends deeper than should be possible given who he is, _what_ he is, cutting a jagged agonizing path to the very core of his celestial being. Blue eyes shining and damp, he blinks, a tear breeching dark lashes to streak his cheek. He’s not supposed to feel this way. He’s not supposed to _feel_ anything.

_“Where are you going?”_

_You peer up at the angel standing in the doorway. Your fingers falter their clutch on the duffle at the sight of him. “Away,” is your brusque reply. You stuff a rumpled shirt into the gaping mouth of the duffle. There isn’t time to bother with folding – with being prudent. You’ve already squandered too much time here. A hunter, any hunter, their days are numbered and you’ve spent too many days hoping for something you can’t have. Tendered too many unrequited touches. Cast too many longing glances. Nurtured too much intimacy without enough in return. You don’t want to leave the Winchesters and Cas, they’re family, but you cannot bear the thought of enduring another moment living in the shadow of a radiant sun, worshipping the luminance, yet never knowing the warmth of the light upon your skin._

_Those penetrating blue eyes of his roam over the mess you’ve created in your haste to pack. Returning his regard to you, they narrow, somehow losing none of their intensity. “Where?” he asks, stealing a step further into the room._

_“Just-,” you murmur, gaze dropping, unable to look at him, “just, away.”_

_“I could go with you,” he offers, expression earnest, the lines of his features softening._

_He could, and you know he would without a second thought; he would follow you loyally to the ends of the Earth, and farther. He would make the journey regardless of the destination for any of his friends. But you don’t want him to follow you; you want him to wrap his arms around you and hold you fast – to ask you to stay. To fight for you, not alongside you. To show you he needs you just as much as you need him. To affirm the love stirring in your heart is not one-sided._

_The prickly sting of tears blears your vision. Spurning them, you sniffle, forcefully reaffirming your resolve. “No,” the word emerges with a razor edge. “Sam and Dean need you.” Your heart thumps in protest, stuttering in a Morse code of rapid beats the sentiment of: I need you, too. You ignore the wildly palpitating organ and zip the duffle. Careless, you pinch the flesh of a fingertip in the biting metal. “Ow,” you hiss, wincing, sucking the pinched digit to your lips._

_“Let me,” Cas rasps. Gently grasping your wrist, the tide of his grace soothes and heals the trifling wound._

_It’s the only time he touches you – when you’re injured. When you’re bloodied and battered. He does the same for Sam and Dean. For strangers. Even for foes. In your mind it’s proof you aren’t special to him. You tell yourself there is no affection in the gesture, merely an innate sense of angelic duty toward soothing suffering where and when he is able._

_He lets loose your wrist, fingers lingering no longer than necessary once your pain abates._

_“Thanks.” You heave the strap of the duffle onto your shoulder, sidestepping him in a rush to get to the door. “Goodbye, Cas.”_

_He trails in your wake. “When will you be back?” his bass inquiry reaches your ears before you disappear around the corner of the hallway._

_A lasting thread of hope grows taut at perceiving his pursuit and halts your momentum mid-stride. You pause to inhale a shaky breath. You don’t look back at him. Throat tight, you don’t speak either; you don’t want him to hear the deluge of tears you’re choking back._

_“Y/N?”_

_You don’t answer him; it would only serve to open up the possibility of him asking why, and you can’t admit to him he’s the reason you’re leaving. You walk on. Angels, it seems, know nothing of mending broken hearts._

Twenty-one days – they say it takes twenty-one days to form a new habit. But what happens if someone doesn’t want to form a new habit? Stubbornly refuses to do so? What if the old habit became so deeply ingrained in their existence they cannot, nor do they want to fathom living any other way? You left twenty-one days ago. Every day since, irrespective of your absence, as is his habit, Castiel prepares coffee for you to share. You’re a poor sleeper and an early riser. Whiling this quiet time alone with you, before the brothers awake, it became a routine the angel cherished and one whose value he took for granted until it was gone.

Sitting at the kitchen table now, a frown furrows his features as he sips the coffee; the swallow bursts in a blitz of indistinctly bitter molecules skittering across his tongue. Drawing the mug away from his mouth, his forlorn focus rises with the dissipating heat billowing upward in a roll of hazelnut-infused steam to your cup growing lukewarm there on the table across from him. Beyond it, sits the empty stool where you were wont to perch, chattering on about everything and anything at all as he listened, committing each and every syllable, puff of exhaled air, and minute quirk of facial muscle to memory.

_“You ever wonder what it would be like?”_

_Cas squints at you curiously and wags his head. Shifting forward, he sets down his coffee, interlacing his fingers upon the tabletop to give you his undivided attention. “What, what would be like?” he asks, your question unclear to him._

_“Life.” A wistful smile teases the corner of your mouth. Brushing a stray wisp of sleep-mussed hair behind your ear, you lean across the table to lightly rest a palm on the angel’s clasped hands. “You know, a normal life. Or something closer to one.”_

_His regard falls to where the radiant heat of your flesh washes over his skin. The involuntary and unnecessary respiration of his vessel hitches. The truth is, he has wondered. He wonders every time he looks at you. He questions his entire existence every time you touch him. But he’s an angel, and this feeling kindled in your presence or simply when he thinks of you, it’s not meant for angels. No matter how much he longs to reach out to you, he resists the possibility. Upon his creation he swore an oath to serve Heaven, and as a servant of Heaven he will shield you, share your struggles, even sacrifice himself in your stead – but you, your soul, it’s not his to touch._

_He slips his hands quickly from beneath your fingers. “No,” he lies – a lie he compels himself believe._

_“Oh,” you sigh and settle heavily back onto the stool. Shoulders sloping, you hug your arms to your chest, reflexively shrinking into yourself. “I thought maybe-”_

_Regret clouds the sky blue of his eyes as he looks up and recognizes your wounded reaction._

_Meeting his gaze, all you perceive is pity – pity for the poor pathetic human who presumed to love an angel. “Nevermind,” you mutter, hopping off the stool, “I’m going to grab a shower before the boys get up.” But it was never pity for you muting the brightness of his blues – it was pity for himself._

The angel’s eyes wetly reflect the same pain now.

Dean’s gruff voice shatters the solitude, “Geez, Cas. It’s been what? Three weeks?”

Cas turns his face away from his friend to wipe away the sheen of tears with the back of his hand. He wasn’t expecting Dean to be up this early.

Dean gravitates toward the scent of freshly brewed coffee and fills a cup. Mug brimming, he lumbers over to settle in your vacant seat. He coolly contemplates the angel who respectfully remains hushed, knowing a certain threshold of caffeine consumption must be attained before further conversation can commence. Not that Cas wants to talk. Halfway through his cup, Dean gruffly launches in, “Look, the way I see it, you have two choices. You can sit there staring at that stupid novelty mug day after day torturing yourself, or you can get off your freaking heavenly high horse and tell Y/N how you feel.”

“How _do_ I feel, Dean?” Cas snaps at his friend’s brazen supposition.

“You’re in love. And don’t start claiming you love all of us. It’s different with Y/N and you know it. You wouldn’t be wallowing otherwise.”

“I made an oath. An angel and a human, it’s not-”

“Damn the oath!” Dean slams a fist hard to the table, the impact sloshing coffee onto the wood surface. “When did you stop following your heart and start following the rules anyway? You think Heaven gives a crap what you do anymore?”

“I don’t deserve-”

“To be happy?” Dean snorts. “Of course you do! Stop making excuses.”

Cas inhales a measured breath; as the air inflates his lungs so too does the understanding that Dean is right expand his mind – the only barrier preventing the angel from loving you is himself. Breathing out, he asks, “Where do I start?”

“Jody called to check in. Y/N is in Sioux Falls.”

Cas bobs his chin gratefully, “Dean-”

“You’re welcome.” Dean waves him off, ducking down to his cup for a mouthful coffee. “Now go.”

Cas finds you exactly where Jody said you’d be – in the kitschy _Cupid’s Diner_ across from the motel near the interstate where you’re staying. She said you’d spent hours there every morning since arriving.

He watches for some time from outside the gleaming chrome wrapped building – swirling snowflakes gathering on his shoulders and dusting his dark hair as he stands there looking in at you, motionless save for the racing of his heart. He watches you smile at the waitress in the bubblegum pink frock and red heart-bedecked white apron taking your order – your friendly feigned smile fading as soon as she turns away from you. He watches the waitress bring you two steaming cups of coffee on saucers. He watches as you glance up expectantly each time the bell rings when a customer yanks open the door to enter or exit. He watches and wonders who you are waiting for and if his being here is an intrusion. He watches until resignation weighs upon your countenance and you no longer bother to look up.

The crowd of the morning breakfast rush is receding when he brushes the snow from his coat and walks in. Approaching the corner booth where you sit, he doesn’t know what to say, so he clears his gravelly throat instead.

You peer up wearily, eyes widening in delighted sight of the snow-flecked angel. “Cas?!” you gasp, fighting the desire to leap to your feet and embrace him.

“Is, uh, is this seat taken?” He motions to the vinyl upholstered bench seat across from you.

You shake your head.

Tucking his trench coat aside, he slides into the booth.

You push one of the untouched cups of tepid coffee toward him.

He looks at the shimmering pool of muddy liquid. Eyes lifting to lock on yours, a small smile of realization traces his lips – all this time you’d been here waiting for him. “ _You knew I would come._ ”

You nod, admitting, “I miss this, Cas. Every morning since-”

“Me too,” he interjects, leaning across the table. “I missed you. Missed _us_.”

“Us?” your voice emerges barely a whisper. Tears welling in your eyes, a quivering smile curls your mouth.

“I should have done this a long time ago.” Reaching out, he takes up your hand, weaving your trembling fingers through his own.


End file.
